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by aishahiwatari



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Butcher's Consent Issues, Daddy Kink, Hate Sex, Just the Tip, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Spit As Lube, but only slightly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25171924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: “Daddy’s home,” Butcher says, and Hughie grits his teeth and rages and fumes and seethes because this is not fair, he does not get to just waltz back in after- fucking everything, and act like nothing’s happened. MM accepts it, and Frenchie’s come to expect it, and Kimiko- well, who fucking knows, but Hughie is not there yet. He is not broken in, worn down or fucking willing to repress this anymore.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Comments: 33
Kudos: 538





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**Author's Note:**

> WHAT DID YOU FUCKING EXPECT

“Daddy’s home,” Butcher says, and Hughie grits his teeth and rages and fumes and seethes because this is not fair, he does not get to just waltz back in after- fucking everything, and act like nothing’s happened. MM accepts it, and Frenchie’s come to expect it, and Kimiko- well, who fucking knows, but Hughie is not there yet. He is not broken in, worn down or fucking willing to repress this anymore.

“No, fuck you,” he doesn’t say then, but later, when Butcher tries to lay a fucking hand on his shoulder like he has any goddamn right. “You were willing to ruin my life for just a shot at getting the revenge that had taken over yours. And our aims aligned so I went along with it, because I was vulnerable, and broken, and confused, but not anymore. We are not friends.”

“Hughie-“ Butcher begins, and Hughie is suddenly fucking irrationally terrified that he’s going to get the thing he’s wanted most since this whole thing started -an apology- and it’s going to take all the words out of him before he has a chance to vent them, and he’s fucking earned the right to vent them.

“You don’t control me,” comes out as more of a plea to be heard than the aggressive statement he intended, but it makes Butcher stop talking, and gives him the change to get out all he’s been thinking he needed to say, “You are not my boss. We’re working towards the same thing because I believe in it, and it’s better your particular brand of psychopathy is turned on them than on us. Fuck knows what you believe. But maybe with our help, you’ll end up doing the right thing.

“You’re not more important, you’re not in charge, you have no right to just stroll in and think you can claw that power you had back by pushing my buttons-“

He pauses, telling himself he’s taking a breath when in reality he’s fucked up and Butcher is an unrelenting, stubborn, selfish asshole, but he’s observant with it. Hughie saw his realisation in the way his eyes briefly widened and the smug fucking smile started taking over, and then Hughie fucking confirmed it by freezing, revealing yet another weakness for Butcher to take advantage.

“Not that that’s a button, for me,” he says, incredibly pointlessly as he’s slowly and inexorably backed up against the wall with his gaze flitting between a broad chest, dark eyes and one large hand that comes up for Butcher to lean on the wall by the side of his head. Hughie’s heart pounds, his breathing quickens and he dreads to think what’s showing on his face because he knows exactly what’s going to happen and there’s a traitorous, savage part of him that wants it.

Butcher’s grin is feral and he’s close enough for Hughie to smell him, sweat and spice and leather, and to feel the warmth of him, and he can’t even do so much as close his eyes, hopelessly entranced by this natural disaster of a man who’s seen him at his worst and found him a whole collection of new lows to sink to.

“Now, you gunna be good for daddy?” Butcher asks, as though there’s any possible fucking response to that, as though Hughie’s cock didn’t just surge to life in his pants, as though he hasn’t already rendered him near-speechless with his mere presence and the slightest brush of his fingers against Hughie’s chest as he works to slowly unbutton his shirt. He’s wearing a T-shirt underneath but the touch still burns.

“Fuck, I hate you,” is what Hughie pants, in lieu of an answer, as he lets his head thud back against the wall and closes his eyes, hands twitching at his sides with the warring urges that compel him to reach out.

Butcher just hums, though, strangely pleased. “Fine line between love and hate.”

“No, there fucking isn’t. There’s a gaping fucking chasm between what I feel for you, and love.”

“Both make you want to fuck though, don’t they.”

It’s conflictingly off-hand, casual. When Hughie opens his eyes, Butcher’s smile is lop-sided, and his gaze dark, interested, confident but not expectant. Hughie knows that if he says no at this point then Butcher will stop. He’s fully unbuttoned Hughie’s shirt but now that hand has been lowered, and he waits.

This is a fucking mess, but it’s not about to become less of one no matter what they do at this point. Hughie has one card to play in this situation, one means by which to claw back some of his valuable control, and it’s the fact that Butcher wants this as much as he does.

He swallows, takes a deep breath, and says, with more confidence than he necessarily feels, “Yes, daddy.”

Butcher crushes him against the wall with a hard, biting kiss, and fuck, it hurts, but fuck, Hughie wants more. He whimpers, and he lets Butcher take his mouth, and he clings to the belt loops of jeans, claws at a broad back, fists his hands in a ridiculous fucking shirt because he’s wanted an apology for a long time but he’s wanted this for longer, and it’s so much more than he imagined.

Butcher doesn’t hold back, gives him no chance to catch his breath or clear his head, just bombards him with sensation and drives him higher and tangibly, palpably cannot get enough of him. He drinks in the way Hughie tastes and chases more, threatens to tear his shirt off with the frantic, aggressive exploration of his hands, presses hot and hard and real against Hughie’s hip when he pushes him into the wall, so close it’s like he’s trying to crawl inside him.

“Take this off,” Hughie manages to grit out, when biting Butcher’s lip earns him a moment’s reprieve and the taste of blood blooming across his tongue, as he fumbles with Butcher’s shirt buttons because he wants to fucking see, to touch and feel the collision of their skin.

“Take this off, what?” And they’re still pressed together from the waist down, but Butcher’s hand wraps around Hughie’s wrists and holds them, lifts them up so he can kiss Hughie’s knuckles, the smug, gorgeous fucking asshole.

“Daddy, please,” escapes Hughie’s lips with surprising ease, still a vein of his repressed anger thrumming there, giving it an honest fluidity. It’s not a traditional outlet, but Hughie thinks he’ll feel better when it’s done. “Wanna feel you.”

He has so much power here, he thinks, when Butcher miraculously does as he’s told, and fumbles, too, hands not as steady as they were. Hughie did that, he thinks, with a flush of pride and- “Fuck me,” he breathes, long and appreciative, as Butcher shrugs his shirt off and the muscles of his stomach and chest ripple, strong arms flexing. The man is gorgeous, unfairly, implausibly so, and he fucking knows it, too, preens when Hughie sets his hands to broad shoulders, explores the sculpted definition of his arms. “Holy shit.”

Butcher snorts, pleased, has to fight Hughie for a moment to convince him to stop touching, to put his arms down and allow the removal of his own shirt, then lift them so Butcher can yank off his tee and throw it aside.

“There’s a good boy,” he murmurs, too, as they kiss again, Hughie’s answer just a shiver and roll of his hips, all possible words leaving him in a breathless gasp.

It’s not nearly as frantic, this time. Hughie’s relaxed by the praise and craving more, sinking beneath waves of sensation, the lap of Butcher’s tongue, the warm, shifting pressure of his hands and the solid chest against his own. He could go on forever if it weren’t for- “Want you to fuck me, daddy,” he pants, before he can translate his rising urgency into something less honest, less revealing.

The groan Butcher lets out is long and involuntary. It might be the sincerest thing Hughie’s ever heard from him. He feels like he could get addicted to that sound.

“I’m not gonna hurt you like that, Hughie,” it sounds like it pains him to say, and fuck if that only drives Hughie’s need higher. He wants to hurt, and be cared for.

“Daddy, please,” earns him another wounded sound, the barest slip of his fingers beneath the waistband of Butcher’s jeans another. “Waited so long.”

Butcher muffles what sounds like a sob, head hanging, then growls, “Fucking killing me here, Hughie. I’m not doing that without proper lube, you’ll fucking hate me after.”

According to their previous conversation, Hughie already hates him. He elects not to point that out. “I want it to hurt.”

“It won’t fucking hurt, it’ll rip you apart. And how well do you think that’s going to work out, when the others want to know where you are and I’ve been back for five minutes and already had you carted off to hospital with rectal tearing. Go down like a fucking lead balloon.”

Hughie hates that he laughs, that in this moment he realises just how much he’s missed him, and that it makes Butcher’s smile turn softer, realer. This is a symptom of their problems, not a solution to them. “I still haven’t forgiven you,” he needs to have known, suddenly, and something in Butcher’s jaw twitches before he grins, back to embracing the darkness.

“That’s alright. I haven’t fucking apologised.”

He’s right about one thing. Hating him really makes Hughie want to fuck. He seethes all over again, but now he can reach out and express it in the flash of teeth and the taste of Butcher’s blood, in the scratch of his nails and the red lines he leaves behind in the tanned, otherwise flawless expanse of his back.

In answer, Butcher just clutches him tighter, kisses him harder, presses his thigh more firmly between Hughie’s and squeezes his ass to make him rut, helpless, against it, a ghost of the friction and pressure he needs but at least something, after so long spent denied.

So fucking long. Hughie fumbles at Butcher’s waistband and he’s not stopped, this time, by anything, only slowed by their combined need for closeness.

Butcher’s cock is hard and slick at the tip when Hughie draws it out. He strokes roughly, makes Butcher’s breathing stutter, learns the feel of it, foreskin sliding over the head, Butcher’s hips hitching like it’s not enough.

He’s right. It’s not. Hughie aches to be touched, but also to be filled, cracked open, vulnerable but -he knows, with a certainty that surprises him- completely safe.

“Just the tip, daddy, please,” he breaths into a long, open-mouthed kiss, and Butcher thrusts into his grip, like even the idea is too much, now, all other movement stalling. “Wanna feel you, come on.”

Doubtful, dark eyes scan his for doubt, reluctance, insincerity, but find none, and Hughie knows he’s won when Butcher sets his jaw.

Still, he plays at considering, thumbs Hughie’s swollen lower lip and lets out a low, appreciative hum when Hughie laps with his tongue, then draws it into his mouth, sucking wetly. “You want daddy’s cock that bad?”

Hughie nods. Butcher’s thumb pushes down on his tongue, threatening to trigger his gag reflex, and he swallows around it, makes Butcher’s expression crease.

“Unbutton your pants,” is a deep, dark command Hughie obeys just slowly enough to keep his hands steady. He’s wearing jeans, and he pushes them down when he’s done, so they shackle his ankles, humiliating and arousing all at once. It’s alright. He’s not going anywhere.

Butcher gives his tented boxer-briefs a long look, as he withdraws his thumb, replaces it with two of his fingers, long enough and with a press insistent enough that Hughie needs to consciously relax his throat, cock twitching tellingly at the threat of intimate penetration before he can mask it with the stretch of his waistband. Then he has exposed himself completely, and Butcher’s gaze roams, unhurried, or maybe savouring.

Hughie only hardens further at the attention and Butcher is definitely going to use that against him in the future. For the first time Hughie allows himself to believe that might be something they could both enjoy.

“Lick,” Butcher commands, as he withdraws his fingers, and Hughie does as he’s told, a long swipe across Butcher’s palm, feels the answering, “Good boy,” trickle down his spine. “Turn around.”

It- has been a while since Hughie’s done this, but he knows enough to bend at the waist, to brace himself against the wall, to spread his legs as best he can.

The barely audible, maybe accidental, “Fucking beautiful, Hughie,” makes him gasps, tears pricking at his eyes. It’s normal, he tells himself. Emotions are running high. It doesn’t necessarily mean-

The , “Gorgeous boy,” growled directly in his ear as Butcher wraps around him is utterly unmistakeable, makes him whimper, earns him soothing sounds and a hot, dry hand around his cock. It’s torture not to thrust into that grip, but Butcher’s words, “Stay still, be good,” could set him in stone.

Hughie does sob at the first wet, cautious touch of fingers to his hole, too tight for how ready he is. Butcher has never been as gentle with him as he is in that moment, when he tests and then works at the resistance as best he can, with what they have. It doesn’t feel good yet, burning and unfamiliar, but Hughie needs it all the same.

Butcher’s thumb -it has to be, with the way his fingers cradle Hughie’s aching balls- slides into him, almost what he needs, and Hughie lets out a long breath, allows his body to accept it.

“So fucking tight, Hughie, are you sure-“

Hughie’s said something like this before, but if Butcher stops now, he will genuinely kill him.

“Fucking- need you, Butcher-“

Oh, fuck. That’s not what he meant- “Need your cock, daddy, come on. Just the tip, let me feel it, I’m so close.”

That probably shouldn’t be true, but it is; Hughie’s been threatening to get hard since Butcher uttered those fateful words, and this whole thing is indulging every single kink he tries to tell himself he doesn’t have.

The disgruntled sound in his ear is belayed by the hard press of Butcher’s cock as he fits them together, slides experimentally through the valley of Hughie’s ass with just the hint of pressure where he wants it, as it catches. If he were worked open, it could slide right in but Butcher just wraps his still-slick hand around Hughie’s cock and squeezes as he rocks back and forth with slowly building insistence.

“Butcher-“ fuck, Hughie’s headspace is fragile, not equal to this clusterfuck of poor decisions or who he’s with, but it gets him what he wants; Butcher losing a tiny bit of his control at the sound of his name in this context and his hips hitching, pressing the tip of his cock past that first resistance.

Hughie keens and somehow slurs out, “Fuck, that’s good,” through the haze of pleasure-tinged pain, bracing his arm on the wall and his head on his arm, his body not entirely responding to his requests to hold itself up while it’s being split open. He’s shaking all over, and with every second the burning returns and the thrill recedes, and there’s a moment of doubt that maybe he can’t take this, that he said he could but he can’t, before Butcher begins to stroke his cock and the pleasure takes over and all the tension ripples out of him.

“Oh, yeah, that’s it-“ escapes Hughie’s lips before he can stop it, and why would he stop it, because he can feel Butcher’s knuckles against his ass, like it’s taking his hand wrapped around himself to stop him sliding or slamming deeper, and there’s the damp heat of ragged breathing against the nape of his neck, the movement of a fist around his cock winding him tighter, the deep, incomparable satisfaction of being made to part, open and vulnerable-

There’s no lip service to whatever game either of them thought they were playing when he comes, just a grateful, genuine groan of completion as he spills over Butcher’s fingers, as teeth sink into the back of his shoulder to contain Butcher’s reaction to the arrhythmic clenching of his body. Without thinking, Hughie rocks his hips, mindlessly seeking more and then he gasps at the telltale pop, the head of Butcher’s cock dragged into him, a momentary relief of the lessened stretch before Butcher pulls out and leaves a sudden, gaping absence that makes Hughie whine with the loss until it’s followed by a choked utterance of his name and the hot, visceral sensation of come spurting over his lower back.

It’s warm when it hits, but it cools quickly, drips down Hughie’s side and his ass, into his crease, makes him shiver and crave more.

He could move, but he hasn’t. He opens his eyes -hadn’t realise he’d closed them- to notice the hand Butcher currently has wrapped around his hip is covered in his come. The rest is spattered on the floor, a little up the wall, a testament to intensity of it.

Oh, they really did this.

Butcher’s face is pressed between Hughie’s shoulder blades as he catches his breath, but when he does, he demands with startling urgency, “Fuck, are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”

Hughie flexes experimentally, finds he aches a little, but he’s not hurt. “I’m fine.”

Butcher heaves a guilt-ridden sigh against Hughie’s back, and doesn’t let him go.

It’s more concern than he’s ever shown for Hughie’s well-being before. Maybe this was a good idea, after all.

Hughie eases himself -and the attached Butcher- into standing, stretching out his back with a sigh, feeling fulfilled. It hasn’t fixed any of their problems, but-

He nudges Butcher, who’s tucked himself back into his pants and looks on the verge of bolting, but not before Hughie’s had a chance to say-

“Hey. Don’t do the daddy thing in public, anymore.”

He’s pretty sure Butcher gets what he means.


End file.
